


Humming

by stardropdream (orphan_account)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 10:04:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur practices.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Humming

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ May 17, 2011.
> 
> The request was for Arthur to practice with a sword or longbow.

He waits for the moment of clarity—the tell-tale moment he knows his shot will be perfect.   
  
He swallows thickly, his fingers curling around the string. The bow hums in his hands, as if sparking to life. There is an ache in his biceps, and it spreads to his wrist and up his arm, spikes into his shoulder. It is agony. It is agony to hold the bow taut. The agony holds tight, slinks through his fingertips as he holds the arrow poised against the strings.   
  
The noch goes against the string, and his hands tighten. The agonizing ache churns through his muscles and deep into his veins. He holds it, taut, against his heart. He is merely an extension of himself in tehse moments. Straight and locked. Left arm drawn to the corner of his eye and holding.   
  
He exhales and releases, and reaches for another arrow without a pause. His eyes, sharp, see the destination of the arrow—another perfect shot. He inhales. He exhales.   
  
These are basic mechanics.   
  
There is a period of time between the draw and the snick sound of the arrow accelerating off the rest. That is something that Arthur will never be able to describe, even to those who know of which he wishes to speak. The time between the two movements is usually five seconds. When he shoots, this period of time becomes nothing. There is no room for anything in those five seconds. No songs from birds. No shift of the wind or the sky or the earth. No movement. Nothing. His field of visions covers only that narrow expanse of himself and his target, the expanse of so much space in five seconds.   
  
He draws another arrow, feels the ache. Hears the echo of his breath as he holds perfect still and there is nothing. His arm locks. He exhales. The arrow flies and snicks into its target.   
  
The ache of the strain grows each day of shooting, and his fingertips feel raw under the leather padding, and they throb a little.   
  
His mind, at all times, must be in control. When he shoots, he must have that clarity, he must have that understanding and calm. The slightest jerk of correction in his stance would mean the rolling field of vision, feeling wayward and as if everything is on the line and he is sinking and falling or churning all at once.   
  
So he waits.   
  
He exhales.   
  
Waiting. Waiting. Always waiting.


End file.
